After fifty years or more together his nearest companion and
friend had gone, and he did not weep aloud. Afterward I was again
impressed with the same fortitude or quietude. I saw him walking down
the long drive to the main road with all the friends of our
neighbourhood about him--and the trees rising full and calm on one side,
and the still greenery of the cemetery stretching away on the other.
Half way down the drive he turned aside to the fence and all unconscious
of the halted procession, he picked a handful of the large leaves of the
wild grape. It was a hot day; he took off his hat, and put the cool
leaves in the crown of it and rejoined the procession. It did not seem
to me to be the mere forgetfulness of old age, nor yet callousness to
his own great sorrow. It was rather an instinctive return to the
immeasurable continuity of the trivial things of life--the trivial
necessary things which so often carry us over the greatest tragedies.
I talked with the Scotch Preacher afterward about the incident. He said
that he, too, marveling at the old man's calmness, had referred to it in
his presence. Uncle Richard turned to him and said slowly:
"I am an old man, and I have learned one thing. I have learned to accept
life.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137